


him.

by Icanwritesee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Different Meeting, M/M, sorry for the angsty part, why do I always write John so unbelievably smooth is beyond me srsly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 02:30:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5440142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/pseuds/Icanwritesee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>life was painfully dull. Sherlock hated it. hated the instant attention, the obligation to explain the odds of his behaviour to strangers. that it was expected of him to talk about his <i>feelings</i> above all things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	him.

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this one as a gift for someone on Tumblr and decided to post it here, too while I was at it. enjoy.

sometimes it still hurt. sometimes it took so much effort. and courage. he wasn't sure if he really had it in him, or was it just the very core of his personality - that inherent stubbornness Mycroft always complained about. it _did_ bring him troubles from time to time, but nothing he couldn't cope with. the problem, essentially, was his own brain and that it never slowed down while working, always trying to tear itself to pieces. yes, _being_ hurt. that's why Victor's drugs proved to be incredibly useful when his mind just couldn't stop its whirring. at first, it was just his presence - the newness of their acquaintance was... very refreshing, actually. but then, one day, Victor brought him something 'to help him relax', as he said with his dangerous smile that made Sherlock weak in his knees. the worst decision in his life.  
the only thing able to sober him enough to realize drugs were even more dangerous than Victor, was a phonecall. a message, to be precise.  
someone found Victor's cold body in some filthy alleyway not very far from their campus. overdose.

*

after Victor's death, rehab almost made him go mad because there was no distraction left to use. funny thing, no one took his cigarettes away. technically, smoking was prohibited, but Sherlock was pretty sure Mycroft adviced those incredibly pricey babysitters to not force his baby brother to quit. maybe fatty knew it would result in some other form of destruction, not necessarily his own.

life was painfully dull. Sherlock hated it. hated the instant attention, the obligation to explain the odds of his behaviour to strangers. that it was expected of him to talk about his _feelings_ above all things.

Sherlock beared eight weeks of excrutiating boredom of rehab. something just snapped in him and he escaped, climbing out through the narrow window in the loos when everyone was eating dinner. he only put his coat on - it was the only valuable thing he was in possession of, anyway.

not particularly bothering to hurry, he walked on and opened a door of an official-looking black car waiting for him by the entrance of the facility.

\- Mycroft.

\- hello, Sherlock - Mycroft greeted him with his typical air of superiority and irritation that usually resulted in rising all his walls. he didn't try to hide his wince of disgust. - eight weeks? you're surprising me, brother dear.

\- shut up, Mycroft - Sherlock answered without missing a beat. - get me home. I _can't_ stand this place any longer.

\- no need to be so rude, Sherlock - one corner of his mouth has fractially lifted up, as if he expected to hear precisely that. he probably did, always the git. without any sign, the driver took off, and soon both of them could see landscape melting away into more familiar city view. Sherlock used silence to delete some of the rubbish cluttering his space. Mycroft, knowing all his silences like the back of his own hand, settled for observing his little brother that worried him _constantly_.

 _bored. smoked at least a pack a day since the beginning of the program. due to natural tendency to resist, he was never eager to participate in any activities. ran away through window on the ground floor. feels better, but not much. not under the influence of any recreational substance._  
  
\- while you were away, someone called to my office to ask about you - the older Holmes finally spoke up after what seemed like an hour. Sherlock's eyes blinked curiously in a silent question, encouraging him to continue. - some young constable named Lestrade. claimed to have known you.  
Sherlock's lips made some kind of movement.  
\- he called me to say about... Victor.  
\- I see - Mycroft's response was unusually soft, just like when their parents had to put Redbeard down. - said constable has been asking about you. nothing overly personal.  
\- and what did you say?  
\- that I appreciated the sentiment in your behalf and that if your wish was to contact him, I shall not stop you.  
Sherlock nodded, absorbing these new informations. he remembered him very well - Lestrade was slightly older than him, but his hair has already started to grey; he was the only copper that treated him like a human being that night.  
\- sentiment...  
his older brother sighed, delicately shifting his weigh and buttoning his suit. it was Mycroft's equivalent of what other people called fidgeting.  
\- tell me.  
\- for the time being...  
\- you are going to put me at your flat - he stated instead of asking, cutting through whatever it was he was going to say. Mycroft nodded sharply. Sherlock felt bile rising in his throat and his chest constricted painfully like there wasn't enough oxygen.  
\- forget about it. I will burn the entire _street_ if you lock me up between your precious suits of armor!

*  
  
Mycroft's eyebrows have slightly lifted up in a sign of terror that made me smile a bit. _got you_. he sighed, irritated above measure.  
\- fine. what do you _want_ to do, then?  
his figure and voice spoke of inspeakable torture. and he claimed it was me who loved to be dramatic...  
\- I want to go back to my flat - I answered quickly. - and I don't want ANY of your eyes or ears to follow me there, am I understood?  
my dear older brother looked positively outraged at hearing such order. I smiled mockingly.  
\- but, Sherlock...  
\- no. whatever your reason is, no.  
\- ...fine.  
he never goes down without fight, that one. truly a Holmes.  
I leaned back in Mycroft's posh government car seat and closed my eyes to finish deleting with sense of sweet victory. _home_.

*

his name was John and he was everything Victor would never be. I met him one day, I think it was Monday. it was Monday, and Mycroft's inner control freak has been driving me mad like always. he came to my flat, made himself a cuppa and sat there, complaining about the state I left my possessions in. nothing new there, but this time, something snapped within me and I left, slamming the door in my wake. I was fuming, in desperate need of letting go of some steam; my feet felt heavy like millstones. I'm not sure how much time I spent on walking, but I remember finding myself in front of a small bookshop and one look made me realize it wasn't that far from my place at Montague. not very sure as to _why_ , I walked in anyway.  
the bookshop was, indeed, small. consisted only of one room with low shelves scattered all over the place; the only other furniture were single armchairs here and there. not very modern, I would say. however, I could suddenly take a deep breath, so I would count it as a success.  
to fully soak in this spot, I began browsing it and my eye caught something that _shouldn't be there_.  
\- ...John Erichsen's _The Science and Art of Surgery..._ \- I whispered to myself in wonderment, reaching for the incredibly rare book. I carefully peeled archaic covers to reveal title page. - printed in Philadelphia in 1854... excellent condition...  
my reverie was broken by not-very-delicate poke to my side.  
  
_studies medicine, currently in a relationship with a cat lover, though doesn't like cats very much. older alcoholic brother. popular, has a lot of friends, but doesn't appreciate being in the spotlight. captain of a successful rugby team, has an exam in twelve hours. also... a bit beautiful._  
  
\- sorry, mate, this one's mine - some short blonde man dared to take it away from me. -  
\- you're joking, right? - I cocked my head and put on my best withering glare. the bastard didn't even bat an eye. - I literally just took it, which means it's _mine_!  
\- oh, yours? - he smiled. utter cock. - did you pay for it, then?  
\- oh... um...  
his fucking smile was too bright for me not to murder him, really. I would have to call Lestrade, he would help me to hide the body.  
\- thought so. no one carries cash in their pjs.  
after that statement, he turned to the cash register and bought the book _I_ wanted to own. and I had to watch it since I didn't think of leaving the flat in my pyjamas. that. bastard.

*

he made me hate him at first for his cockiness. but then, he helped me to love him for his kind heart and all the small things that made him complete.  
  
*

we ran into each other few days later (or was that weeks later? not sure. time flies, as they say.), and I remember gritting my teeth when I saw him.  
\- it's you! - his brow has travelled skywards in a look of surprise that made him look somehow... endearing.  
\- it's me, and happily, this time I'm fully dressed and... - I retrieved my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans. he stopped me before I even opened it with rising his hand.  
\- look, sorry for what I said that day at the bookshop - he began, and I felt my mouth drop. his eyes were unwaveringly blue. also, my skin did something funny because it started to tingle in a place where his fingers were still closed around my wrist. - I was in the middle of a...  
\- ...histology marathon, you were revisioning for your exam, I know - unable to contain myself, I broke his train of thought.  
\- how do you know that?  
\- oh, that? it's nothing. just the thing I did since I was a kid.  
\- I don't understand...  
I rolled my eyes, but secretly I was a tad pleased to have gained his attention.  
\- I didn't know it, I _saw_. you've bags under your eyes that suggest you study a lot in the nighttime when all the boring people sleep. so, medicine, what else? that and rather distinct choice of your textbook, any dilettante would keep off of it.  
\- that was... brilliant.  
I paused, hearing the unfamiliar word in his mouth. _delicious_ mouth.  
\- you... you think so?  
\- I think... - he leaned in my personal space and _licked_ his mouth while looking at me. it wasn't like I was staring at his mouth too often... - I would like to kiss you now. then I would like to take you to dinner, and then to my bed. would that be okay?  
he didn't give me time to properly respond. impatient, that one. he stepped even closer, putting his hands on the sides of my face and kissed me then and there, effectively wiping out every thought from my ever-restless brain. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
